


Interlude: A Reassurance

by belovedmuerto



Series: An Experiment in Apathy [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Conversations, Crime Scenes, Gen, M/M, Reassurances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s not you, it’s this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude: A Reassurance

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thanks to wren for looking this over.

John follows, as always, though he’s still unsteady on his feet, in his own skin. 

The last few days of the study at Baskerville had involved more time spent trying to extricate himself from Stapleton’s desire to really get inside his head and muck about than actual time really participating in the tests. There’s something about her that really started making him uncomfortable towards the end of his stay. Something about her emotions was off, though not in any way he could truly articulate. He hadn’t bothered to bring it up to Sherlock, but he’s certain that Sherlock had noted it as well.

They’d re-run all of the initial, physical tests, explaining they needed the results for comparison with his original tests, and he’d had a hasty few hours the last day to throw his mental wall back together. He’s not sure how good a job he’d done; he’s still filling in the chinks and gaps, trying to make the stacked stone wall feel more solid and stalwart.

Sherlock had insisted on driving to the train station, had been overprotective, all puffed up like an angry swan, glaring at all and sundry, snapping and irritated and basically his usual abrasive self; except with John, who he’d encouraged to sleep on the train home. John had let him, he hadn’t even admonished; it was nice to feel protected and safe.

He’s not sure he should be going to the crime scene with Sherlock, but he goes anyway. It’s only been two days, there’s no way he’s up to this. But how can he not? He can’t resist, even if he’s sure that he’s not ready for this, that his wall is still too shaky to withstand the buffeting it will take at a crime scene.

Sherlock appears unconcerned with his worry, though he has to know it’s there he seems to have dismissed it out of hand. He’s in puzzle-mode, and John is merely another appendage right now, to be directed and used. 

It’s somehow reassuring. Sherlock would have said something, were there something worrisome to be noted, of course he would have.

He would have. He would.

So John trails behind the consulting detective to the crime scene, gravitating around the perimeter towards where Greg Lestrade stands, looking harried. But then, Greg often looks harried when John sees him, because Sherlock is often involved. There’s a direct correlation there. John wonders briefly if Greg looks so harried when he’s around Mycroft.

“Feeling better, mate?” Lestrade asks him as he approaches.

John shrugs. “I suppose. Still a bit out of it, to be honest.”

“Mycroft’s been utterly unbearable lately,” Greg adds. “So thanks for that.”

John smiles a little. He can always count on Greg to make irreverent remarks. “Glad to be of help.”

For a few moments, they watch S flit around the scene, under the scowling eye of Anderson, his magnifying glass out, clearly muttering to himself. He seems to be as outwardly interested as he is internally; John can tell he’ll be occupied for a little while, so he turns to Greg. 

“I’m going to go grab a coffee. Want anything?”

“Sure. Cheers, mate.”

It’s a relief to get away from a few minutes. It gives him time to settle his thoughts and his own emotions. Standing in line at the cafe and waiting for his order allow him some time to practice, to sort through the simple emotions of the people in the cafe. It’s soothing, actually, and much easier to deal with than the roiling emotions of the crime scene.

But he has to go back. So he does.

“Cheers, John,” Greg says, accepting the cup of coffee.

Sherlock is still flitting around the scene. To the outside observer, he hasn’t noticed that John left, let alone that he came back. But John can feel it, the tendril of concern, of _are you all right?_ that Sherlock sends across their link.

“John!” he barks.

“He’s done that three times already,” Greg intones. 

John rolls his eyes and hands Greg his own cup of coffee, takes a deep breath, and ducks under the crime scene tape.

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be. 

Sherlock stiffens slightly where he’s crouched next to the corpse; John tries to tamp down on the remnant emotions that refract through him; he knows that Sherlock doesn’t like them, that they interfere with his concentration.

They feel like they are his own, like he’s feeling these things. John tries to concentrate on what Sherlock is telling him, the details and deductions he’s getting from the scene, the body of the victim.

“Shh, John,” Sherlock interrupts himself to say. “It’s not you, it’s this. You’re all right.”

John shakes himself. For now, the reassurance is enough, and he turns his concentration to the victim on the ground, giving Sherlock his opinion on cause and time of death.


End file.
